Immure
by CaitlinMF
Summary: In the event that Jonathan was unable to heal his son, what happens when Jeremiah returns to try and kill Clark again? --Talisman revisited--
1. Part 1

Title: Immure  
  
Author: Caitlin/Aciel  
  
Rating: PG-13 for violence  
  
Category: Drama/Angst  
  
Disclaimer: I don't own anything, so you don't get anything.  
  
Spoilers: Much of "Talisman"  
  
Characters: Clark, Martha, Jonathan, Jeremiah Holdsclaw, Pete, Chloe.  
  
Summary: In the event that Jonathan was unable to heal his son, what happens when Jeremiah returns to try and kill Clark again?  
  
Part 1  
  
It was burning. Red, hot, fiery pain that sent waves of agony coursing throughout his body. Clark didn't think he had experienced anything that hurt as much as this – not even his encounter with Van and the kryptonite-bullets a few months earlier came close to overcoming this. This intense flame of pain that was weakening him as each precious minute passed by.  
  
It was true that Jeremiah Holdsclaw had indeed made Clark Kent fear for his life. He had been wrong when he had assumed that the elder man would possess the same weakness as he. The kryptonite had taken no affect on Jeremiah other than to give him the upper hand in killing whom he believed was an impostor of his people's saviour, Naman. But Jeremiah had failed. Laying, bleeding on the wooden floor of his loft, Clark was still alive. For now.  
  
'I have to do something,' Clark thought to himself, 'And soon.'  
  
Rolling onto his side, Clark squeezed his eyes shut tightly and gritted his teeth together, then rose up slightly on his right elbow. From there he proceeded to drag himself down the foot-high ledge from the upper part of his loft to a lower landing. The blood that continuously seeped from his abdominal wound left a thick trail leading from the pool, which had already gathered during his immobile state after the sudden shock of being stabbed had come over him.  
  
Step by step, he painstakingly worked his way down the stairs of his family's barn. Gripping the handrail tightly as he leaned most of his weight onto the sturdy wooden beams, unable to fully support himself on his own, Clark's legs shook with the effort of each step. But he still moved forward. If he could just get to a phone to call his parents, everything could be fixed; everything would be all right—Wouldn't it? Clark wasn't so sure. The fact that the blade of that knife had actually penetrated his skin was highly unsettling. Even the small amount of kryptonite that he had revealed should not have been enough to weaken his skin to the point of allowing such injury. The intensely throbbing pain reminded him of that.  
  
After some time, he finally made it down to the cement floor of the barn. With no handrail to guide him along, Clark was unsure of how to continue on. He was feeling dizzy by this time. Vertigo swam through his mind as colours swirled about in his eyesight, his vision greying at the sides. Supporting himself on tool benches, support poles, crates, and anything else that could help keep his balance, Clark clumsily made his way towards the barn door. Eventually he got there, and with much effort he began taking strained steps across the pebbled dirt drive to the farmhouse.  
  
The sun had gone down by now, leaving a pink-orange hue set upon the distant fields. Crickets chirped from the surrounding grass, and the cows, needing to be brought in for the night from the pasture, were calling out for their owner's attention. But at this time, he was too involved in staying upright and keeping himself awake.  
  
'Only a f-few more st-steps,' Clark puffed, 'Al-almost there.' With his left hand pressed firmly on the deep wound, and his right out in attempts to maintain his balance, Clark continued on. At some point only a few metres from the white picket fence, his knees gave way and Clark ended up sprawled on the dirt ground. A groan of pain, and cough producing blood later, Clark stumbled back onto his feet, dragging himself over to a fence post and pulling his body upwards. Now depending on the fence, he shuffled his way along to the house. The pain coursing through his veins had started to dull to a numb, tingly feeling. His head pounded in agony, his mouth dry, save for the metallic-tasting blood, sweat dripped down his back, and dizziness kept his eyes shut tightly.  
  
He felt his left foot hit the stairs and he made his way onto the porch, practically crawling on all fours. Pulling open the screen door with a bloodied hand, Clark leaned directly onto the kitchen counter to keep himself up as he reached out for the telephone. But his supporting hand slipped on the countertop for its blood-saturated state, and Clark was sent falling to the kitchen floor.  
  
The phone was out of reach. Clark found himself containing no energy to move any further. He was unable to call his parents who were still out visiting with the Jackson's from town. Clark had no idea what time it was, so he was unsure of when they would return home. Return home to find him lying on the kitchen floor, dying. Because that's what was happening, Clark realized. He was going to die. There was no sure way of healing the stab wound, cut deep into his chest. He could sense his life's blood quickly draining out of him as his body turned numb. Lying huddled up on his stomach, he found it shortly becoming harder and harder to breathe. With his head against the cool floor, Clark's eyes swam with unshed tears. Who would save him?  
  
At last his eyelids fell closed as he let numbness wash over him and descended into darkness.  
  
With the moon high in the sky and stars shining brightly, a soft light spread over the town of Smallville. It was very late, especially for the middle-aged farm couple that generally kept a curfew of eleven pm. But it was now almost 1 in the morning, as they finally entered the driveway of their farm. Parking the truck, the two climbed out and held hands as they walked up the path to the front porch.  
  
Smiling softly to her husband, Martha Kent slipped her keys into the lock and opened the door.  
  
"That was a nice time at Jim and Molly's, wasn't it?" She spoke to her husband.  
  
"Well, I don't know what to say about that overcooked roast, but..." Jonathan started teasingly.  
  
Martha lightly slapped her husband's arm. "Oh, Jonathan. You know--" She suddenly stopped talking. Confused, Jonathan was about to question her silence, when he looked to the kitchen.  
  
"Clark! Clark!" Martha screamed out, running down the hall to fall to her knees by her son. He lay immobile on the kitchen floor, the cordless phone cast aside unintentionally, huddled over on his stomach. Jonathan too, soon kneeled down beside their fallen boy.  
  
"Jonathan, he barely has a pulse!" Martha exclaimed, moving her hand from the boy's neck to run her shaking fingers through his dark hair.  
  
"Help me turn him over," Jonathan replied, his voice urgent. Together the two gently rolled Clark onto his back where they discovered his injury. Dark, sticky blood soddened the white plaid shirt from a point on his chest. Martha gasped, Jonathan swore. "Quick," he ordered, "Get something to stop the bleeding."  
  
Martha rose and hurriedly went further into the kitchen, heading towards the sink. But as she made her way, her foot suddenly slipped on the wooden floor. Looking down, she was shocked to find that she had slid in a pool of blood. Her son's blood. Shocked, Martha glanced over at her husband, where he too sat stunned.  
  
"Hurry, Martha," he finally said, "It's pretty bad," Turning back towards his son, Jonathan ripped open Clark's blue undershirt to reveal the odious wound. He leaned down to attempt to listen for his son's breath, but could not hear a sound. At this time, Martha had returned to his side, a washcloth in hand. "Martha, he's not breathing." He informed her.  
  
With an erratic sigh, she answered, "Help him."  
  
Jonathan began performing CPR on Clark, whilst saturating his hands in the boy's blood. Counting, he occasionally stopped to release breaths into his son's mouth. Martha sat beside him, running her fingers through Clark's dark curls and whispering soft, calming words in hopes that the ailing boy could hear her. The couple continued on like this for what seemed like hours, but was only really about ten minutes. Their son had begun breathing on his own with a wavering sigh, yet he still lingered in unconsciousness.  
  
"What do we do now, Jonathan?" Martha asked him, "How could this have happened to Clark?" Desperation was in her voice as her tear-filled blue eyes gazed into his of the same colour.  
  
"I don't know, Martha. It must have been the force of Jeremiah Holdsclaw," He replied, "I guess we should just get him cleaned up-"  
  
"And then what?" Martha questioned, a little more harshly than she had intended.  
  
"We wait." 


	2. Part 2

Part 2  
  
Inside their kitchen, a middle-aged couple sat, their only son lying unconscious between them. His head rested upon his mother's lap, as she slowly threaded her fingers through his soft hair. A thick red blanket covered his wounded body, as his shallow, raspy breathing gave a constant reminder to his parents of the trauma he had only just recently experienced.  
  
The mother's eyes were lightly closed, but a grim look of worry was etched into her kind features. "Hey, sweetheart?" Her husband whispered to her. At this, she opened her eyes and gave a silent nod in response. "How are you doing? Do you want to go up to bed for a bit, I can stay here with him," He suggested kindly.  
  
"No, I'm fine. I'm staying with him until he wakes up," She informed him, a forceful, determined edge in her answer.  
  
"Alright. Do you think we should try and move him up to his room? Or at least to the couch?" He asked her.  
  
Martha gazed down at her son. "Wherever you think is best," As an afterthought, "Though I don't think you should try to get him upstairs. Your heart, Jonathan," She reminded him.  
  
"You're right. Here, let's move him into the living room," He answered.  
  
Martha stood and watched as her husband carefully placed his arms behind Clark's back and under his legs and lifted him up, so he was carrying their son like a small child. He then walked into the living room and placed the 'super' teen onto the couch, once again covering him with the bright red blanket. Martha then took a seat on the couch by Clark's legs, smoothing his hair away from his closed eyes. With a heavy sigh, Jonathan sat upon the adjacent coffee table, and rested his elbows upon his knees.  
  
"How could this have even happened, Jonathan? Was there kryptonite around, because if so, the effects shouldn't have lasted this long, right? We were sure it was the only thing able to make him invulnerable, but now this..." Martha began, talking rapidly and waving her hands about.  
  
"Shh, shh. It's alright, sweetie," Jonathan interrupted, attempting to calm her down. "I don't know how it happened, but Clark did say he was going to try and use the meteor rocks to control Jeremiah. My guess is it didn't work, or Jeremiah got the upper hand and caught him off guard." He placed a comforting hand upon hers. "It'll all work out, Martha. Clark's tough. He can make it."  
  
Little did the couple know, their son's saboteur knelt just outside the window listening in. He had heard everything.  
  
"You're still alive, Fake Prophet. I guess I'll have to go find me some of them green rocks so I can finish you off once and for all." With that, he sped off across the fields.  
  
Silence echoed through the Kent household, reverberating off the coloured walls. The first light of morning peaked through the attractive curtains of the living room and onto the legs of the sleeping teen. His parents were situated on a nearby armchair, they too off in slumber after the long night prior.  
  
Outside the farmhouse, cautiously walking up the front porch was a man in his mid-twenties, of obvious native descent. His motives were suspicious as he peaked into a window to locate his prey. He found the family peacefully asleep, in discordant to the aboriginal man's deference. With a quick snap of his wrist, the man opened the locked door and silently stepped inside. Putting his plan into action, he quickly sped over to the couple, knocking both their heads and rendering them unconscious.  
  
At the sound of bone hitting bone, the injured teen stirred. His eyes slowly flickered open before he squeezed them shut again at the luminance of the room. With a groan, he rolled his head to the side, and once again lifted his eyelids.  
  
"Wake up, fake prophet," A voice spoke out into the room.  
  
The teen jolted fully awake and sat forward, only to yelp out at the sudden flare of pain the movement brought. Still though, he turned his head towards the source of the voice. "What-What are you doing here?" He gasped out.  
  
"I failed in killing you last night. I've come back to make sure you do not survive this time." The native replied.  
  
"What are you talking about, Jeremiah?" The teen questioned, "Why don't you just leave me alone?" It was then he noticed his fallen parents. With shock evident in his voice, he yelled to the intruder, "What did you do to them?"  
  
Jeremiah chuckled. "Oh, they'll be fine—maybe. It's you that I worry about now," He spoke, "Are you going to come with me on your own, or do I have to force you?"  
  
A steadiness in his voice, as he slowly turned fully towards the native, "I am not going anywhere with you," Eyes locked onto the immoral elder man's, "You cannot make me do anything."  
  
"Yeah, we'll see about that," He answered smugly. Reaching into his pocket and pulling out a fairly large chunk of green meteor rock, "Your mother and father really need to be more careful about what they say, Clark. You never know who could be listening in," he smiled.  
  
The teen cringed, feeling the effects of the kryptonite take its toll on his already weakened body. "No, you can't do this," he gasped, falling back to the couch, his hands pressed firmly to his abdomen as if to hold his insides within him.  
  
With a laugh, Jeremiah reached out and grabbed Clark's upper arm. "Let's see how you like it being normal and on your deathbed," pressing the rock against the teen's neck, "You'll pay for ever interfering with my people's prophecy." Practically dragging him to a standing position and across the hardwood floor.  
  
"No, no," Clark rasped in pain, "Please, stop."  
  
With a swift knee-jab to the teen's stomach, Jeremiah sent him falling into unconsciousness. "All for the better, I presume." He taunted, then picking up the 'super' teen and tossed him onto his shoulder. He then walked out the damaged front door of the Kent house and sped away with the injured Clark, with all intentions to never return him to his family ever again. 


	3. Part 3

Part 3  
  
The old car rumbled up the long gravel drive, stones popping under its tires. It was dusk; the sun hanging low on the horizon, as the night time creatures scurried out of their habitats and Pete Ross drove his classic car up to the Kent farm. His thoughts weighed heavily on his teenaged mind. Thoughts of his parents' recent divorce, his hiding out in the Torch office at school, his mother's move, and the distance that had begun existing between him and his best friend. The latter he planned on finally concluding that evening.  
  
'I don't want to do this, Clark,' he thought to himself, 'But it's the only way,'  
  
The fact was that he was going to tell Clark of his upcoming move to Wichita with his mom. He had found that there was nothing left for him in Smallville--there was never really anything for him in the first place. A move to a new city would be a fresh start where he could be able to renew his view on life and find a place for himself. At least he hoped.  
  
Pulling the car to a halt next to the family's red truck, Pete removed the keys from the ignition and stepped out of the car. He began walking up the path to the front porch. As he ascended the stairs, he noticed that the farmhouse's front door had been broken in. Dark stains of a dried liquid were splattered about on the cream-coloured entrance rug.  
  
'This isn't right,' Pete thought. He carefully stepped over the threshold of the front door and around the dirtied rug. He peered into the living room to his left and the guest room to his right. Nothing.  
  
"Hello?" He called out, unsure if anyone would hear him. He tried again, "Mr. Kent? Mrs. Kent? Clark?" Taking a few steps further into the silent house, "Is anybody home?" Reaching the kitchen, Pete took notice of the dishevelled appearance of it all. There was a pile of stained rags on the counter-top, with 'Blood?' Pete wondered. A heap of blue and red blankets lay on the step down into the living room, which was equally disturbed. As he took another few steps into the kitchen, his foot suddenly fought purchase on a sticky substance. Looking down, Pete noticed he had stepped into a small puddle of the dark texture that had been dripped throughout the house. Upon closer examination he found that it was indeed what he had feared. Someone in the Kent family had been injured.  
  
Pete called out, "Mr. Kent! Mrs. Kent!" Hesitantly, "Clark!"  
  
"Who's down there? Pete?" A man's voice, obviously Jonathan's, yelled down from upstairs.  
  
Pete bolted for the stairs, ascending into the upstairs hall.  
  
"We're in here, Pete," Jonathan called from his and Martha's bedroom.  
  
Pete rushed into the room. "What's going on? I saw blood on the floor downstairs. Who's hurt?" It was then he took notice of the position the elder couple was in. Martha sat on their bed, sobbing into her husband's chest, as Jonathan calmingly rubbed his hands across her back.  
  
"It's Clark, Pete. He's gone."  
  
Secluded in a forest far from any real means of civilization, stood a lone hut. Moonlight shone through the tall pine trees onto the wood-shingled roof of the run-down, old structure, peaking into the tiny broken slats of glass which stood as windows along its walls. Inside the hut existed two beings—one human, one not. The latter of the two lay suffering in pain on a roughly constructed table. His ankles and wrists were bound down to the paint-peeling surface, leaving him immobile save for the shivers of cold, which ran down his spine, causing his body to wriggle around helplessly. Opening his heavy eyes, the teen squinted at the bright light of a bulb, which hung above his head, leaving him blinded to his surroundings. The boy's chest heaved in pain, as he called out into the emptiness.  
  
"Hello?" he rasped, "Is anyone there?" His voice quivering, Clark's eyes involuntarily welled up in tears, "Please, somebody. Help me."  
  
"How could this have happened?" Pete questioned aloud as he sat with his friend's parents at the kitchen table of their home. His hands were red, the result of endless wringing in his tense attitude after being informed of Clark's whereabouts—or lack, thereof.  
  
Looking to his silent, grief-stricken wife, Jonathan answered, "We're not all too sure ourselves, Pete. The important thing right now is getting him back."  
  
"And you guys suspect it was this Jeremiah character who took him?" Pete re-established, looking to the older man, who nodded in response. "Well, then I guess we'll just have to do some investigating—find out where Jeremiah could be keeping Clark, if he is keeping him somewhere. I mean, he could've left him on the side of the road somewhere, for all we know!"  
  
A deep sob escaped from the mother as she started to mourn for her missing son once again.  
  
Realization dawned upon Pete, "Oh, god. I shouldn't have said that. I'm so sorry, Mrs. Kent," he spoke, taking Martha's hand in his and giving it a reassuring squeeze. "I'll do my best to get Clark back. I promise you that—anything it takes," giving her a small smile. Sobering up, he looked to the father, "Well, should we start looking for him now?"  
  
Jonathan glanced between the two, then outside through the window. "It's pretty late, we might not find very much," With a sigh, "I hate to say it, but I think it's best we start tomorrow morning—we'll have better chances that way," looking towards the younger boy, who nodded sombrely in reply. It was going to be a long night. 


	4. Part 4

Part 4  
  
He was cold. So cold, that the deep, raw emptiness sent a sense of fear to his very soul. It wracked his body and twisted around his mind. The fear for his family, of his death, and of what the crazed man would do to him and those in which he loved. It was an endless fear, unlike anything Clark had felt before. This man had power over him, in both kryptonite and the alien metal currently in his possession. It was with this power that the man could do almost anything he dared. And he dared to kill Clark Kent.  
  
A shuffling and the sound of heavy footfalls startled Clark out of his thoughts. He cracked his eyelids open slightly to watch Jeremiah walk across the room towards him. The queasy, unsettling feeling increased in the pit of Clark's stomach. He had no idea what was coming, and that scared him even more.  
  
"Why hello there, Kent. It's nice to see you're finally awake," Jeremiah spoke, his voice snarling with deceit, "Now it's time for some fun." He pulled a large chunk of kryptonite from his pants pocket, and placed it on a nearby table.  
  
Clark looked over at the now-glowing green rock and felt the effects of the stone wash over him in a fury of pain. He gulped, clearing his throat before he answered, "Wh-What are you going to do to me?" A pause. "What do you want from me?"  
  
Jeremiah smiled, running his calloused hand across Clark's face. "Oh, don't worry about that, phoney prophet. It will all come in due time—or not. What you need to know now is that I am in control. Anything I say goes. That means whatever I tell you to tell me, to do, and not to do," Wrapping his hand around Clark's already-bruised arm and squeezing roughly, "Understand?"  
  
The teen winced at the pressure on his recently developed wound, biting his lip in the process. Shakily he nodded his head in the positive in response, and turned his head to look out towards the broken window of the dank room.  
  
With a mumble of his own, Jeremiah stepped away from the restrained young man to open the doors of a nearby cupboard. Digging around for a bit, he finally withdrew a tray of small metallic items, which created a tinkling noise as they rattled around upon the tray.  
  
Snapping his head back over towards his captor, Clark's curiosity and fear was peaked at the sight of the implements. "What are-What are those for?" Clark's voice trembled.  
  
"Did I say you could ask questions!?" Jeremiah roared. He slammed the tray down on a nearby table. "No, I didn't – that means you do not speak unless I tell you. I thought I had made that point already, or was it not clear enough for you?" Grabbing one of the tools off of the tray.  
  
"I'm sorry, I mean, I..." Clark stuttered. Before he could complete a coherent sentence, Jeremiah took action.  
  
"This'll teach you to talk, Freak," he stated and then plunged all four inches of surgical knife into the teen's upper leg, then continuing on to the boy's abdomen.  
  
Clark screamed at the entry, the pain shooting throughout his body. The tears in his eyes gathered immensely until they overflowed and seeped out onto his cheeks. But the pain didn't end anytime soon. It was only the beginning of one of the longest nights in his entire life.  
  
Many hours later, Clark lay gasping in the old hut. He was still restrained, but for now that was a good thing. Any movement sent shockwaves of immense torture throughout his body. He was bleeding from practically everywhere, a tight burning sensation deep within each wound. The sensation had sent his body into a sort of shock. He was weak, his mouth dry, and his vision blurry. Clark knew that he would pass out again soon, but he both did and did not want the darkness to come. If it did, Clark would have relief from conscious torture—for a little while. But during his last stint of unconsciousness, Jeremiah had only taken advantage of his silent state to increase more upon his degrading activities and Clark woke to twice as many injuries as he has sustained previously. Clark settled upon forcing his heavy eyelids to stay open.  
  
The sound of Jeremiah approaching startled the teen, and he shifted his gaze to the elder man.  
  
"Pitiful," the native man stated, "A man with the greatest abilities in the world brought down to a pathetic wimp at the effects of a stupid rock. You are truly not the savoir of my people—a savoir should be someone of strength, someone who fears nothing, and can stand up to everyone. You, young Kent, are none of those things," Jeremiah's beady stare pierced into Clark with each bemoaning word he spoke. He grabbed another oddly shaped tool off of the old tray and slowly lifted it up to Clark's face. "I will teach you for ever messing with my people—for once and for all."  
  
The knife was pressed against Clark's perspiration-dampened skin, slitting a thin line in the boy's cheek. A thick, dark stream of blood seeped precariously from the fresh wound and trailed down the back of his neck to join the crimson puddle, which layered the tabletop. The deep cut caused the young man to cringe, as he drew his brow up in pain and clenched his jaw and eyes closed tightly.  
  
"Stop," he whispered, "Please, just stop."  
  
But his pleas went unanswered. His pain was not lifted. Sliding his eyes towards to the window of the hut again, he gazed out into the rising sunlight, wondering if it would be the last he would ever see. He then let his tormented eyes fall closed as he slipped into unconsciousness and let the darkness envelop him.  
  
"Who are you calling?" The elder man questioned as they stood in the kitchen of his home. It was early morning, the day after their son and friend had been torn away from them. After a restless night, they had all emerged from their rooms tired, but driven on adrenaline in a search for one of the most important people in their lives.  
  
With the phone cradled between his ear and shoulder, Pete glanced up at his friend's father and replied, "Chloe. If anyone can get information on this Jeremiah character, it's her,"  
  
Jonathan didn't look so comfortable at the idea. "Are you sure we should be involving someone like Chloe in on this? We don't need anything about Clark's origins leaking out to someone who could exploit him," he told the teenager steadily.  
  
"I know that, I--" Pete was cut off as someone answered the line. "Yeah, hey Chloe, it's Pete. Look, we need your help...Clark's gone missing...Umm, sometime late last night...Yeah, I know...Well we were wondering...we? Oh, the Kent's and I...Yeah, anyways. We were wondering if you could dig into Jeremiah Holdsclaw. Find out where he lives, and whatever...Sure, okay...Great, Chloe...Talk to ya later. Bye." Hanging the phone back on its cradle, Pete turned to Jonathan.  
  
"Well, what did she say?" The farmer asked anxiously.  
  
"She's on it right now. She said she'd phone us as soon as she finds something." Seeing the older man's apprehensive look, "Don't worry Mr. Kent. We're in good hands, we'll find Clark." He replied, forcing a determined smile. Jonathan could only nod in response.  
  
An hour or so later, Pete was seated in the Kent's living room. He stared absentmindedly at the latest edition of the Ledger as he tried to hear what Clark's parents were talking about in the adjacent kitchen. He knew better than to intrude—it had to be a very tough time for them, their nightmare had come to life—but he couldn't help but be curious.  
  
The shrill sound of the telephone ringing startled him and he grabbed for the cordless that lay on the coffee table before him.  
  
"Hello?...Oh, Chloe. Good...What did you find?...Where?...The woods? Are you sure?...Which part of town?...Okay, anywhere else?...No, alright...Okay, thanks Chloe...What? No, sorry. I think it'd be best if...I understand, Chloe, just please don't...Yeah, yeah. Look, how about you come over here and stay with Mrs. Kent?...I don't want you getting hurt Chloe...Okay, fine...Later." After he had hung up the phone again, Pete looked up at the worried Kents who stood nearby. "She found that Jeremiah owns a piece of property in the woods north of town. There's a house on site, but it's a big chunk of land—if Jeremiah has taken Clark, it's my best guess that he took him there."  
  
"Are we sure about this, Jonathan? I mean, you two could get hurt—as much as I need Clark back, I don't want to lose you both too," Tears gathered in the mother's eyes. It was obvious she was strained over the events of the past night, and that anything more might break her.  
  
Jonathan wrapped his arms around his wife, comforting her as best he could. "We'll be fine, Martha. What matters is getting Clark back."  
  
Pete allowed the elder couple to have their moment, before he interrupted to tell them of Chloe's coming arrival to the farm. Knowing his wife would not be left alone put Jonathan at ease for the moment and allowed him to quickly prepare for his and Pete's hunt for his missing teen. Chloe was just pulling into the Kent's drive as Jonathan, Martha, and Pete stepped outside into the mid-morning light.  
  
Parking and then exiting her Volkswagen beetle, Chloe briskly walked towards the parents and her friend, immediately embracing the mother in a tight hug. "Oh, Mrs. Kent, I'm so sorry," she said, her voice thick with tears.  
  
"Thank you for coming, Chloe. I-I appreciate it very much." Martha managed to reply.  
  
"Well, we're off," Jonathan announced. "I'll call you as soon as we know anything, alright sweetheart?" He said, embracing his wife.  
  
She nodded in reply, deep worry etched into her features. "Be careful Jonathan...Bring our son home."  
  
With a short nod, Jonathan then led Pete down the steps and across the lawn to the truck. Tossing a few supplies into the back, they got in the cab and then drove away. A broken wife and friend stood together on the porch, watching the truck fade into the distance. They didn't know what the next few hours would bring, nor that they would be some of the most traumatizing hours of their lives. 


	5. Part 5

Part 5 

Their footsteps fell heavily through the underbrush, as Pete and Jonathan made their way through one of Smallville's surrounding forests. It was dark where they were, the full branches of the tall tress creating a ceiling above, shading them from the late afternoon sun. They had been walking through Jeremiah Holdsclaw's land for the past few hours, trying to discern the maps Chloe had hastily sketched out for them. A small square labelled "Storage Hut" was their next destination, for it was as good a place as any to continue the search they had been on for the entire duration of the day. Looking in all his known hideouts and properties, finding the exact location of Jeremiah was turning out to be that of a very complicated situation in the search for their missing son and friend. The day was beginning to end, but Pete and Jonathan's spirit and determination had yet to falter.

"How much further?" Pete questioned the elder man as he stepped around a felled log.

Jonathan looked down at the map, then to a compass he held within his hand, and glanced around him. "I'm not sure, Pete. We should be at the hut by now." He continued to look around through the trees, and Pete followed suit.

A few moments later, Pete called out in a hushed voice, "Hey, Mr. Kent. Look – over there," he said, pointing to his left, "Do you see it?"

The father squinted and finally made out the boy's discovery. "It's the hut! Let's go, but be quiet. We don't want to alert this man if he does have Clark." The two crept along, hiding themselves behind trees, and away from the sight of the broken windows that adorned the worn-down structure. They stopped about ten metres away from the building, concealed behind a fairly large tree stump.

"Can you see anything?" Pete whispered, as they peaked around opposite sides of the stump.

"No, not from here. We need to get closer – if we go around the right, we should be able to crawl along the side and look in one of those windows," Jonathan suggested to the boy.

"Works for me, you lead." Pete responded, as he turned towards his friend's father. Following him as they rushed along the ground, Pete didn't look where he was stepping and suddenly tripped on a large tree root. It sent him flailing to the forest floor where he landed with a yelp. Scrambling back to his feet, he cursed himself, and ran over to join Jonathan who had bolted to the side of the building upon Pete's fall.

"You alright?" the elder questioned, as the two knelt on the ground. Pete nodded, rubbing at his scraped elbow.

"Let's just get this done with," he whispered in response. Cautiously, they rose up on their heels to peak inside the window above them. The glass was dirty, cracked in some places, but they managed to see beyond it into the large, dank room. What they found shocked them to their very core.

"Holy ----" Pete cursed, and Jonathan didn't even berate him for it. He was too aghast at the site be fore him to say much of anything.

Finding his guts, Pete spoke "We...We need to get hi-him out of there...Just. How?"

"I don't know...I just, I don't know." The father's voice wavered, "Oh, Clark..."

They continued to be transfixed on what the window beheld to them. The usually strong, invulnerable teenager they knew was lying helpless on his deathbed, almost literally speaking. His tall body was littered with lacerations and bruises, showing evidence of the horrible things his kidnapper had done to him. Chest rising and falling rapidly as he drew in sharp breaths to his oxygen-deprived lungs, Clark Kent's eyes flickered as he drifted in and out of consciousness, almost unaware of his surroundings as agony consumed his mind and body. His captor stood nearby, rinsing his hands in a rusty, dilapidated sink, and unbeknown to him being watched by two very determined individuals.

Pete spoke, "We need to get him," nodding his head towards the native man, "out of commission. Take him down like the rat he is." Jonathan blinked in approval, still watching his only son suffering in torment. "Okay, Mr. Kent. You know how you told me that the star blade there gave him Clark's abilities? I say it's the only way we can overtake him. If the blade can hurt Clark, it should be able to do the same to Jeremiah, right?"

Jonathan turned to the younger boy, clenched his jaw, and nodded. "Right. It's just sitting on that table there, so if we go in, you distract him, I'll grab the knife, take care of Jeremiah, and we'll get Clark out of there..." He trailed off, still unsure of the whole idea.

Pete putting a reassuring hand on the man's shoulder. "We can do it, Mr. Kent. We have to. Clark has saved all of us so many times, it's about time we return the favour."

With heavy hearts and a newfound determination, Jonathan and Pete headed around to the entrance of the old cabin, and prepared themselves for the coming disturbance. Silently turning the knob of the surprisingly unlocked door, Jonathan peered around the wood to find a smaller room directly inside, with an open doorway leading into a larger room – the one in which his son was being held. Putting a finger to his lips in silence towards Pete, the elder man cautiously stepped in and over to the side, where he stood flat against the wall. As Pete followed suit, Jonathan shuffled along the wall, thankful for the old rugs placed on the hardwood floor, which aided in silencing the falls of his work boots.

But not silent enough apparently, as a voice rang out through the cabin.

"Who is it? I can hear you, you know!" It was Jeremiah Holdsclaw, and his direct attention on them, although expected, still came across as a shock to Pete and Jonathan as they realized the true nature of their mission. There was no turning back now.

With a nod of approval to the dark-skinned boy, Jonathan stepped forward into the doorway, revealing himself to his son's abductor. Recognition dawned across the native's face immediately.

"Well, well, well. If it isn't Jonathan Kent. I knew I wouldn't see the last of you anytime soon. And look, here you are. Come to try and save your freak of a son?" Jeremiah taunted him.

"Yes, actually, I did. Now if you don't mind--" he was cut off by Jeremiah unleashing a blast of heat from his eyes, igniting the wooden doorframe to the left of Jonathan's head.

"I do mind, Mr. Kent. Don't think I'm not afraid to kill you. I've just about completed the same task on this worthless liar here," Jeremiah laughed, gesturing towards the moaning teenager.

"I'll never let you do that, Holdsclaw." Jonathan stated, as Pete suddenly ran out from behind him over towards his fallen friend.

With his head turned towards the intruder, Jeremiah didn't notice Jonathan grab for the Kawatche knife on a nearby end table. Lunging towards the unsuspecting native man, Jonathan drove the blade deep into the left of Jeremiah's chest, right into his cold, black heart. The wounded cried out in pain, relevant to that of which he inflicted upon the innocent boy across the room, as he dropped to the floor, the knife still buried deep within his chest. A golden light enveloped the room, basking everything in a soft yellow glow. And as soon as it came, it disappeared.

Still struck by his actions of taking another man's life, as deserving as it may have been, Jonathan stood stock-still. Staring down at the now-deceased man before him.

"Mr. Kent!" a voice called out to him. Pete. Of course, and Clark. He had to save his son. Snapping his attention towards the boy, Jonathan quickly stepped across the room to his restrained son.

"It...It doesn't look good, Mr. Kent," Pete whispered, solemnly stating the obvious as the two stared down at the injured teen.

Jonathan tentatively reached out a hand to brush away sweat-dampened hair from his son's pale forehead. His mood was sombre as he took in Clark's ill-fated state. The boy had gone through pure hell, and he was paying for it dearly. "Let's...Let's get these ropes off him," he answered. As they removed him from his restraints, Clark mumbled incoherent words aloud, though his eyes stayed closed. "Come on, son. Open your eyes, Clark. It's dad," squeezing his son's hand in his own, Jonathan repeated soft words of comfort to Clark.

Alas, Clark's lids blinked open, revealing deep green-blue orbs of sadness as his tears of anguish began to well up.

"It's okay Clark, you're going to be alright. We're going to take you home," Jonathan whispered calmly.

"D...dad?" Clark mumbled, rolling his head side-to-side. "It hurts, dad...it hurts so bad,"

His own tears flooding his vision, Jonathan swallowed deeply and replied, "I know it does Clark, I know." He then put his arms under his son's legs and back, and lifted his battered, bleeding body against his chest, cradling the teen like a child for the second time in as many days. Turning towards the door, he allowed his son's dark-skinned friend to lead the way, as he opened the door for the elder man.

"We've got to get him back to the farm, Pete," Jonathan spoke, as he began carefully walking through the forest, cautious to avoid any tree roots in his attempts to not jostle his son any further. As it was, the boy moaned painfully as he used the last of his energy to grasp fistfuls of his father's flannel shirt tightly in his hands, as if to focus on something other than the intense pain coursing through his damaged body.

Jonathan continued to utter soft words to the boy, keeping him conscious and aware of the fact that he was free now, that his night of torture was over. He was safe.


	6. Epilogue

Epilogue 

"Hey man, how ya doing?" The male voice rang out through Clark's loft as he sat in his old, worn couch. The midday sun shone in through the window as he absentmindedly flipped the pages of a novel. Looking up at the voice, Clark saw his best friend climbing the stairs and walking towards him.

"Hey Pete," Clark spoke, tossing the book onto a nearby desk.

The newcomer sat next to his friend on the sofa, and stated, "You never answered my question – how are ya feeling now? Better, I assume seeing as you're hanging back up in your loft again...alone."

Clark smiled slightly, then answered, "I'm fine, Pete, thanks. Just a little tired still." The truth was that it had been three days since that fateful night, held in the woods against his will. Though he had healed pretty much instantly after he had been brought home and showered, the memory of Jeremiah's evil doings still continued to haunt the teen—not that he would confess that to his friend.

"You and your super-human body, man. I'd give anything to be able to come out of something like that and be completely unscathed only hours later." Pete jokingly slapped Clark's back.

The tall teen was quiet for a moment before he came up with an answer, "Yeah...sure is something..." The loft was silent then, the only noise filtering in was the sounds of cattle calling out from a pasture somewhere on the Kent property.

"Well, I won't make you stay around boring ol' me any longer than you want to," Clark started, but Pete only laughed in response.

"Are you kidding man? Of course I'm staying here. A brother's gotta keep his pal in high spirits, no?" Pete replied with a large smile.

And slowly that same grin began to spread itself across Clark's face. The two teens had gone through another strange, hectic happening in their home of Smallville, Kansas, and had survived so together. Their experiences only made their friendship stronger, and truly more important to one another. Besides, brothers gotta stick together, no?

The End


End file.
